


Compos Mentis in B Minor

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [93]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Breathplay, Curtain Fic, Date Night, Domestic, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Inspired by Music, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, POV Dean Winchester, Piano Sex, Post-Series, Psychic Bond, Restaurants, Rough Sex, Strangers, Top Dean Winchester/Bottom Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 17:29:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4844108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean didn’t have to waste any time flipping through the menu at Gibson's Steakhouse, because he’d known what he had anticipated this visit for the past year. Birthdays and anniversaries earned him tours of various steakhouses in Chicago, but Dean saved Gibson’s for one event and one event only. </p><p>Of course, he was sitting across a stranger at the moment, but at least he didn’t lose his table and she would get a free meal. </p><p>What could possibly happen over a little wine and serendipity?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Compos Mentis in B Minor

**Author's Note:**

> Sonata in B Minor by Liszt.

It was a dark and stormy night.

Or some shit like that.

Sam was supposed to meet him _here_ , at this _exact_ spot, at _precisely_ nine o’clock. Because the reservation Dean made six months ago—six fucking, long ass months ago—was for two people at nine fifteen sharp. This isn’t some place that waits around for sorry assholes to drag their straggling asses in. Gibson’s is a Chicago monument, a god damn legend, and you either show up for the reservation or you don’t.

By nine fourteen, Dean was equal parts concerned, infuriated, and starving.

When the grandfather clock struck the fated time, he picked up his cane and addressed the college aged, Halle Berry look-alike hostess with two menus in hand.

“My date’s running just two minutes…”

“I cannot seat you until your entire party is present, sir.”

“And how long until we lose the reservation?”

Vexation flashed through her eyes, but her professional smile remained the same. “Five minutes.”

Three minutes passed and Dean weighed his options. Could he make a hand puppet and call it his date? What about his cane? Maybe if he stuck some googly eyes on it…? Who was close by? Fuck, but he was all the way in the Gold Coast, miles away from unpretentious, decent people. He was trapped by the warped and looming shadows of things like the Museum of Contemporary Art and the Newberry Library.

Any kind of positive progress seemed hopeless. The options available to him were limited and riskier than he was willing to bet on. Dean Winchester has done a lot of stupid shit, especially for food, sex, and his car, but he was not willing to be banned from Gibson’s before eating one porterhouse steak.

Faced with his dreams of red meat cooked medium rare, Dean went over his options. He could make another reservation. He could bribe the waitress with a wink and a Benjamin. He could burst out in an epic Braveheart-esque speech about how allowing his date another ten minutes to arrive would be the charitable thing to do, and it wasn’t really his fault that his date was a scatter-brained lawyer better at billing clients five hundred dollars an hour instead of watching the fucking bronze clock on his fancy ass desk.

Monsters, spirits, demons, and angels seemed more willing to bend the rules than this hostess.

Surrounded by captivating, cinnamon panels of sturdy oak, plush hickory booths, and finely pressed, sand dollar tablecloths, Dean was lured to his doom.

In desperation, with thirty seconds left on the clock, he found his solution.

“Hey,” he blurted out to his desired target. “You waiting for someone?”

She looked confused and slightly put off by his demeanor, but she didn’t immediately slap him or turn away. He absorbed surface details first: five foot eight, not white but he would fix no label on her until he knew for certain, maybe in her forties or early fifties, and her body radiated the personality of an introvert. Deeper details next. Her flaxen hair had smoky, marigold and silver highlights, tied back by a simple, sleek pewter clasp. The clasp alone probably cost more than Dean’s entire outfit, which in itself wasn’t cheap, but no one dresses like a schlub for a meal at Gibson’s. No one.

“No,” she replied, clear and dignified. “Wait listed.”

Reservations that expired were handed off to people on standby. This was his opportunity.

“Look, my date’s running late and he won’t be here for another forty-five minutes at least. But they won’t seat me unless I have two in my party. It’s on me.” There were smoother ways to propose this arrangement, but Dean’s head was clouded by the nearby smell of bleu cheese scalloped potatoes and buttery mushrooms sprinkled with sea salt and cracked pepper.

Amber eyes examined him the way he examined her, though he had taken less time to do so. She was dressed in a conservative merlot skirt, ivory blouse with something frilly at the scooped neck, and a ruby pea coat. By her demeanor alone, Dean knew she was probably a Gold Coast resident.

The subtle pearl earrings she wore verified it.

Whatever he looked like to her, she agreed with enough to accept his invitation.

Dean motioned for her to walk ahead.

Ladies first.

Steak soon.

 

First things first.

“You drink wine?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Good.”

Dean held the wine menu an inch away from his nose. The ambiance was dark and the lighting soft, as all good steakhouses should be, but it made for difficult reading. Didn’t they have a large print menu?

Eyes narrowed, Dean muttered to their waiter, the bringer of things for the evening.

“A bottle of Hess Cabernet.”

With that out of the way, Dean settled into his chair. They got a pretty good table. He didn’t waste any time flipping through the menu because he had anticipated this visit for the past year. Birthdays and anniversaries earned him tours of various steakhouses in Chicago, but Dean had scrupulously saved Gibson’s for one event and one event only.

Of course, he was sitting across a stranger at the moment, but at least he didn’t lose his table and she would get a free meal.

“Do you know much about wine?”

Her voice, smooth and light like fresh coffee and cream, slipped through his obsessive thoughts on how to make Sam pay for his tardiness.

“Nah.”

“Oh.”

“Yep.”

Her hands remained clasped in her lap, over her napkin. Dean hadn’t gotten that far yet. Food wasn’t on the table, why should the napkin be on his lap?

“May I ask how, then, you arrived at your selection?”

Without pretense, Dean replied, “It was the easiest to pronounce.”

And there it was.

A smile.

First things first.

Steak soon.

 

“Chloe.”

“Dean.”

“A pleasure.”

“Yeah. Thanks again.”

“You are most welcome. Thank you for inviting me to join you. Are you sure you don’t want to order?”

“I can’t eat when I’m upset.”

“No, I suppose one shouldn’t.”

“…but if you’re not gonna finish your soup…”

“Oh, please finish it. It’s very rich.”

“Potato soup is a fu—delicacy.”

“I prefer broth based soups, personally.”

“You don’t get out much, do you?”

“Because I don’t like potato soup…?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, okay. Have you been to McNamara’s?”

“No, I can’t say that I have.”

“It’s on Irving.”

“I’m afraid it doesn’t ring a bell.”

“South Branch Tavern and Grille?”

“Do you keep a list of establishments in your coat pocket?”

“Ugh, you’re almost as bad as… never mind. Go to McNamara’s first and tell them that Dean sent you. Then South Branch. Ask for Edgar and only order the soup, a basket of bread, and a glass of white.”

“Any suggestions for which glass of white?”

“That doesn’t matter so much.”

“Is eenie meenie miney moe too complex of a selection process for you?”

Dean looked at Chloe.

Chloe looked at Dean.

He busted out laughing.

“You’re alright,” Dean murmured, grinning as he took a sip of wine.

Returning his grin with a sly smile of her own, Chloe raised her fork to start eating her salad—dressing on the side. No rings on her fingers. Perfectly manicured nails, however, Dean did notice the single coat of clear polish. From the cuff of her blouse, he could make out the glint of a gold bracelet, but it was obvious that she neither wanted nor needed attention drawn to it.

Nothing about her was ostentatious or garish.

She fit in. And it seemed like she had the ability to do that wherever she went.

“So, Dean.” Not even salad dressing dared to disrupt the melody of elegance around her. “To what do I owe this serendipitous evening? Is your partner frequently late?”

With a roll of his eyes, Dean rested his elbow on the table. A second later, he corrected his posture.

“Guy’s a complete mess lately,” he answered, keeping his tone civilian friendly. Non-Sam speak. Before continuing, he paused to catch her expression. Any hint of disagreement on her part and this was over—he’d waited six months for this, fuck, he could wait another six times ten.

“Busy man, I take it?” Taking care, she dabbed at her mouth. “Not to say you mustn’t also be busy.”

He wanted to tell her nah, it was okay. In their retirement from… well… stuff, Sam had always been the one to heap more activities on his plate than he would be able to handle. He volunteered, worked overtime, ran 5ks, accepted invitations to dinner parties and celebrations, went out for lunch dates, visited museums enough to make season passes worth it ten times over, and bugged Dean until he finally agreed to drive them ten hours away so they could stay at a spa bed and breakfast in Door County, Wisconsin.

Dean went to _Wisconsin_ for Sam.

But it was entirely fair to say that Sam was a busy individual.

“Chicago lawyers do well whether they want to or not.” Chloe set down her fork and reached for her wine. Her movements across the table and back were as fluid as the wine kissing the rims of their glasses.

Amused, Dean leaned in slightly. He kept his voice as low as the candlelight on their table.

“I had no idea you were Olympia Dukakis.”

Pleased with herself, Chloe tilted her chin up. “A worthy compliment, indeed.”

“Well, you didn’t hear it from me. I have a reputation to keep.”

“One of macho stud, perhaps?”

“No. One of I hated that movie and will never see it again because Sally Field kicked ass.”

“It made you cry, didn’t it?”

“No comment.”

“Spoken like the spouse of a lawyer.”

“You pick it up after a while.”

“Yes, I would think so. I preferred _compos mentis._ ”

“Don’t start. I’ve told him a hundred times—no legal jargon at the table. Decent people are trying to eat.”

“But you are not eating. Not yet.”

“He’s lucky this place is open for a while.”

“You’re sure he’s well?”

“Yeah.”

“You rang him?”

“Something like that.”

“Carrier pigeon, I take it.”

“Smoke signal, actually.”

“Ah, vastly more dependable.”

“Have more wine.”

“Maybe you’re older than I thought,” she chuckled, everything between them cleared except for the half empty bread basket and the Hess. “You’re paying at least fifty dollars for that bottle.”

For a Saturday, nearing ten, Gibson’s was bustling. Waiters flew between tables, tables filled and were refilled within minutes, and endless streams of conversation bubbled. The booth was comfortable. Every piece of bread remained warm despite its time away from the oven, nestled comfortably in buttermilk linen. Wax pooled like marmalade around the dwindling wick.

However, throughout everything, their voices never needed more than a slight lift above the din.

What was a fifty dollar bottle of wine?

What was anything, really?

His prized steak would be converted into…

“May I ask what you do, Dean?”

Shit.

“What if I lied to you.”

“What if you did?”

“I’m a ballet instructor,” he said, paired with a cheeky smile. “How’s that?”

Lines around her eyes appeared when she laughed. They looked pleasant. And they highlighted the spark in her eyes better than any candle or spotlight.

“Pardon my behavior, but Dean, couldn’t you lie a little better?”

“Accountant.”

“This isn’t a business dinner, you’ve told me that much at least.”

“Why would it have to be business?”

“Because I’ve never seen an accountant eat a fifty dollar steak and drink a fifty dollar bottle of wine unless it was a business expense.”

Her steak arrived. She had gone with a conventional but respectful choice: the ten ounce filet mignon. Resting on its plain, alabaster china, it told stories of what must be one of the world’s finest kitchens. A boat of cauliflower gruyere accompanied the cut of meat, which also looked edible, but was clearly not the highlight of the meal. Dean’s stomach rumbled underneath his juniper dress shirt. Juniper was a fancy word for green, so Dean had learned when Sam bought this suit. It was meant to be paired with a gray coat and pants, but tonight, he’d gone for indigo.

Only his silver tie would be pleasing to Sam.

That was, if Sam ever got there.

“Maybe you’re an actor.”

“Hmm?”

“You have very interesting expressions, if I may say so.”

“I’m handsome like an actor.”

“Modest like one, too.”

“In another universe, maybe I was one. Had my own television show and everything.”

“I like how you use past tense.”

“Eh, semantics.”

“You sure you don’t want a piece of my steak?”

“When I treat a lady to dinner, I don’t eat her food. Give me some credit.”

“You just look so sad.”

“I’m hungry.”

“I offered to share.”

“Very noble of you.”

“Does he usually work this late?”

“No. I try to have him home by seven.”

“That’s early for lawyers.”

“Well, just because I got him home doesn’t mean he stops working. Little punk brings his laptop and then all of a sudden it’s, ‘Not tonight, Dean, I’m busy.’ Oh. Hmm. Maybe you should forget that last part. No. You know what, Chloe? When he gets here, stand up, point at him, and tell his sorry ass, ‘Start putting out. Dean deserves it.’”

Chloe laughs, her shoulders trembling slightly. “Oh, no, I could never. I’m sorry, Dean, but you’ll have to address that issue yourself.”

“Bah.”

“Are you jealous of his work?”

“It’s not that.”

“No?”

“Nah.”

“So it’s concern.”

“You could say that.”

“Long hours.”

“Yeah.”

“That is difficult.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“No?”

“Of course not. If something doesn’t work, I should fix it.”

“You mean— _he_ should fix it.”

“Isn’t that what I said?”

“…yes, my mistake.”

The doctor said cut back.

Sam said he had.

Tired of the bullshit, the doctor laid it out clear enough for even boneheaded lawyers to understand: stress makes migraines worse. Migraines could cause strokes, put him at risk for high blood pressure, blood clots, and heart disease. What caused the majority of Sam’s stress? Work. What was stress? Bad. What did he need to cut back on? Work. What would it ease? Stress. Which meant less…? Migraines.

A doctor had gone through years of medical training just to have Sam Winchester sit on a cold table, as Dean leaning up against the wall, and tell him that at fifty-two years old he was no spring chicken.

Sam had, in theory, cut back on work two years or so prior. He reduced his number of days at work from five to three.

Of course, within a year, Sam was up to four, working nine to ten hours a day.

Just that day, the Sasquatch had left the house at six in the morning and picked up his office phone at eight thirty in the evening when Dean called by phone. At nine, when Dean tried different methods, it was clear that Sam was still surrounded by tomes, paper, and Post-Its.

Sometimes Dean joined in. Sometimes. Not the running part, though. Water felt good. Meditation was okay, but he mostly thought about repairs to his baby or why Cat would swat flies out of the air and leave their corpses scattered throughout the house when clearly, if she was smart enough to kill them, she could also have the decency to sweep them up.

They had conversations.

Yes, Dean sat Sam down and treated him to his own medicine.

And how bitter it was to be told to knock it off. Quit working so much. Don’t _not_ work, but don’t run on empty all the time. Don’t ricochet from meeting to meeting to yet another meeting to the courthouse to a fundraiser to another meeting across town.

Get a fucking hobby.

The doctor supported the idea.

Hobbies were scarce throughout their childhood. Few things traveled well. Dean loved model airplanes. John never packed light. The last model airplane Dean ever built met its inevitable demise underneath a duffel bag full of rifles.

Sam showed talent for soccer. John never went to one game the quarter Sam was actually on a team. He reaped the benefits though, keeping Sam’s division trophy in his lock box. Lot of good it did in there.

Besides soccer, Sam had shown some interest in band.

A violin on the road? Nope.

Saxophone? Hardly.

Piano? Sure, and your mother’s front teeth.

“No one expects you to play Liszt,” the doctor said, writing down the address to a studio space Sam could practice in. “But just try. You might find that you quite enjoy it.”

He played Liszt.

At first, not very well. In fact, not well at all. Dean could make better noise banging his cane against a cardboard pizza box. An _empty_ cardboard pizza box.

But he bought a stupid piano for the house anyway. He didn’t like Sam staying in the studio so late at night and he was tired of walking up two flights of stairs to accompany him. It was much easier and more convenient to have a team of three burly guys in their thirties haul a baby grand piano into their living room. Some rearranging of furniture was required but worth it.

Sam practiced for hours at a time.

He’d come to bed expanding tired sighs and tilting his chin up to meet Dean’s, looking for the reassurance that would most certainly be freely given.

“What you’re trying to play,” Dean said one night, “is way too complicated.”

Maybe it wasn’t the right thing to say.

Okay, it definitely wasn’t.

“I’ve lost you.”

“Huh?”

Chloe set her napkin atop her empty plate, folding it neatly.

“You might want to get that checked out,” she murmured, quite serious from across the table.

Touching his cheek, Dean pouted. “Get what checked out? I got nothing.”

Gracefully, Chloe stood from the table. Her fingertips skimmed over Dean’s shoulder. Their eyes met, candlelight hiding nothing and everything all at once.

“Really?” One impeccable eyebrow rose. “It’s all over your expression.”

He only wrote one piano sonata.

Half an hour in length, most pianists don’t have the physical capability to withstand it, not to mention the emotional ferocity of a sonata many deem unplayable.

Might as well have four hands to be able to play it.

Dean had only heard it once.

Chloe left.

Steak soon…

 

It begins deceptively calm.

Eerie, in the way it lilts, tips up, rises to an imaginary surface.

Those are ten seconds.

Then—stringendo.

And by the eleventh second it is a nightmare, complicated and alluring, sultry and inescapable. Haunting as it permeates beyond tissue and bone.

Yet it’s perfect.

It’s been said that anyone who finds it beautiful is beyond help.

Legato. Smooth. Adagio. Slow. Then—crescendo!

Except not.

Because a crescendo should be gradual. There are fragments of gradients in the volume, but not as many as the music just _does_ as it _is_. It is forte. Loud. It is piano. Soft. It is, it is, it is.

It is not!

Five motivic elements undergo exhaustive thematic transformation through the progression of this startling, brilliant, blazing madness. If it didn’t sound so _good_ it might be the mashing of random keys! Every note pinches and plucks away at the dead skin of something deemed grotesque, peeling away the rotten surface, violent and abusive. Every press and puncture of hands both invisible and not hacks at layers of oozing, sputtering veins, slicing through grids of tendons and muscle until there—there it is.

The sonata sprawls.

Sam spread his hands over the obsidian plane above the keys.

His hair plummeted forward, past his ears, curling at the nape of his exposed and tender neck.

No transitions.

Heavy and hard from behind, Dean thrusts inside Sam.

Allegro energico. Intense and abrupt.

The keys tremble underneath unseen hands. Sam arches towards the sweltering burn, fucking himself open over Dean’s thick, swollen cock. Shove. Press. Scratch. Buried.

Only the reverberating sound of gasps born from the back of Sam’s throat.

Seized by this lull, he relaxes over the aching hardness submerged inside him. The lack of noise grants him slack, enough to inhale and feel the leaking, sensitive head twitch. Enough to exhale and feel the flushed, rigid length expand, filled with blood, forcing him to make space.

This is the way they understand each other.

Contrasting silence and sound.

Small triumphs. Coded impressions.

Dean left. No phone told him where to go.

It wasn’t in an office that he found Sam.

He found him here—grandioso and wonderful. Lovely and overwhelming.

Move, Dean.

Deep, full, rich.

Arpeggios in triplets. The combat of struggle. Ease out halfway, as if instilling a treaty, then one powerful surge forward, angled to pound against a bundle of scintillating nerves. High virtuosity. The tides turn. No more silence. No more pause. That passage dies. More of the scraping, more molting of fetid, curling layers. Bright bursts of pleasures chased by the tinge of delicious pain.

Pull back.

Hammer in.

Fucking Sam open over the piano bench, rough hands on his shoulders to hold himself up, working up a sweat as he bears down, pummeling the tight, hot ring of muscle. Struck by the fusion of their hips, Sam’s ass bounces with every slam, pert and curved and red.

Ignore falling scales.

Never mind the collapsing, dwindling bridges of muted notes.

It all builds to something greater.

The tremor and the treble.

A constant rise.

An enduring masterpiece of insanity and skill.

Divine, diabolical, unbroken movements—Dean leans forward. His stance is precarious, his grip uneven, but it is worth it, worth it all, just to press his forehead against the nape of his brother’s neck.

The keys clatter, vehement and devastating. Faster, faster, harder, more pressure, more heat, more Sam.

One more titanic climax to wring out every molecule of oxygen, any semblance of rationality.

Sam comes, head tossed back, the muscles in his ass clenching and clutching over Dean. The walls of him quake, rippling and contracting as he covers the bench in come, one spurt reaching the keys.

He comes screaming and gasping.

Dean wrenches their hips into a different angle. He snakes one hand underneath Sam, so that his forearm rests over Sam’s chest and his fingers press over the fluttering artery in his neck.

“Again.”

Squeeze. Fuck. Inhale. More. Exhale. Please, please, please…

Marks bloom.

Wound up to bursting, Dean releases. He floods the tight and eager passage with rope after rope of come. Sam takes it all, coming again, toes curled and hips stuttering.

Liszt’s sonata is nothing but cataclysmic.  

And Sam has learned to play it.

 

“Dean.”

“Sam.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, guess you should be.”

“I mean it.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“I… what?”

“Just. Stop talking. Go to sleep.”

“Don’t roll over, Dean. Don’t…”

“G’way.”

“Please.”

“…”

“You didn’t… you didn’t sit there for too long by yourself, did you?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“Had company.”

“You… did?”

“Yeah.”

“Wait, I thought…”

“You thought what? That I might make reservations for two that included your sorry ass? Hah. You wish. No, I booked them just to see who might wanna sit with little old me.”

“Fine. Go to sleep.”

“I told _you_ to go to sleep.”

“Why do you love to argue after sex?”

“I’m not arguing. I’m letting you know that I didn’t sit there alone like a chump. This lady joined me.”

“And?”

“And she was nice.”

“You aren’t nice.”

“I was charming.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Hey—I didn’t give you shit when I got here, did I?”

“No. You didn’t.”

“So ease off, would you?”

“…what was she like?”

“Pleasant. Her name was Chloe.”

“Chloe.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Okay.”

“Sam.”

“Yeah?”

“What does _compos mentis_ mean?”

“Having command of mind. Like… sound of mind.”

“Huh.”

“Did she say that?”

“Once.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Sam.”

“What?”

“You start in two weeks.”

“Start what?”

“It’s a nine a.m. class.”

“Class? What… Dean, what class? I don’t need to take anymore classes.”

“At UIC.”

“Dean. You’re freaking me out. What class did you sign me up to take?”

“Not take, asshat. You’re teaching it.”

“…”

“Now go to sleep. You owe me two steaks tomorrow.”

**Author's Note:**

> This began as a tiny thought in my head. I'm not even sure how this really happened. One minute it was 9pm and now it's almost 4 am. 
> 
> I am not a musician at all. Thank you to T for providing the language I needed. 
> 
> Phew... so... yeah... leave me comments because those are love.


End file.
